Saif al-Adel pushed his plate away and leaned back in his chair, a contented expression settling over his narrow features. His face was almost feminine in appearance, with full lips, a long, straight nose, and pale, flawless skin pulled taut over high cheekbones. He took his time speaking, as was his custom; in the dangerous business that was his, one did not last by making rash comments or hasty decisions.
Hamza watched the man carefully. He was ever cautious of his fellow Egyptian’s volatile mood swings. They were difficult to catch; the signs could be as subtle as a small inclination of the head, a narrowing of the eyes. For Saif al-Adel, the word volatile held a different connotation than it did for the vast majority of humanity. Hamza had personally witnessed what the other man’s silent rage could lead to. Thinking about it now, he was brought back to an incident that had taken place nearly two years earlier….
The sands of the endless desert south of Kabul burned beneath the fiery orb above. Late in June of 2002, the morale within the organization was low, tempers flaring easily in the extreme temperatures that accompanied the rising and setting of the sun. The Afghans were afraid, and they tried to hide the fear with aggression and bluster. The fear could be attributed to the Americans, and to the MH-60 helicopters that would come low over the desert at night, and to the Special Forces soldiers that would fast-rope down to the desert floor below. Because of the fear, discipline was almost nonexistent in the flat expanse stretching in every direction. Young members of the organization congregated in large groups outside the caves, firing their weapons wildly into the air with complete disregard for the Western satellites that passed overhead. Hassan Hamza, while taking inventory of American Stinger missiles in the cool hollows of the stone outcropping, was drawn to the light outside by elevated voices.
Saif al-Adel, the recently installed commander of the military wing of Al-Qaeda, passed a small cluster of vociferous young volunteers. He heard the name of Muhammed Atef, his predecessor—until the day the Americans had come with their stolen coordinates and laser-guided bombs. He heard the sarcasm in the young voice, the snarled insults, and the derision that can be shown for the dead without fear of reprisal.
This is what Hamza saw: A junior member of the Taliban, maybe twenty years of age, held court at the center of a small group. His rifle was more than an arm’s length away, half-buried in the sand, forgotten by the soldier. The men surrounding him roared their approval at the vicious humor, laughed at his biting tongue, but al-Adel was ignored at the periphery of the group. His head was turning, the expression on his face did not change as he slipped the Makarov pistol free from his belt. Then the head of the young soldier was pulled back and to the right, the crowd scrambling away abruptly, startled shouts filling the air. The muzzle was jammed into the soft flesh beneath the jawbone, brown eyes wide in surprise as the trigger was squeezed, and the top of the boy’s head exploded up into the shimmering heat.
Saif al-Adel stood facing the stunned group of Taliban soldiers, the pistol loose in his right hand. There were armed men at his back, but he did not turn to track their movements. He was unafraid, and the statement had been made…The aggression faded from the eyes of the young men, replaced by a muted fear. Hamza had seen it all.
And could see it still. The hatred was gone at the moment, displaced by the rapture that always followed a successful operation. Hamza could feel it slinking just below the surface, though; for Saif al-Adel, pleasure and murder were born in the same bottomless pit.
“Hassan, my old friend, you are to be congratulated.” The words were soft and sincere. Despite himself, Hamza felt a strong swell of pride at the compliment. “The American is amazingly proficient.” A brief pause. “He is also obstinate, sullen, and evasive. I do not trust him at all.”
The older man could concede that these descriptions were accurate. He had arrived at the same conclusions long ago. He pulled at his ragged black beard while he framed a response.
“He is useful for what he can accomplish, and for what he can tell our soldiers. He is a gifted teacher; I have seen it with my own eyes. A man who is Western in appearance and mannerisms, but can speak numerous foreign languages with local dialects. A man who is able to instruct our fighters on the use of improvised explosive devices, who can demonstrate sniping techniques out to 500 meters without the benefit of a telescopic sight. Most importantly, a man who does not boast, does not condescend when given the opportunity…What would you call such a man?”
The commander drank hot tea and averted his eyes. The answer was clear, but he did not want to acknowledge the truth of it, because if it was true…If it was true, then he was no longer really in control.
“He is an American,” he spat. “He can only be against us.”
“That is not so, Saif.”
“He cannot be trusted.”
“What more can he do?” Hamza asked reasonably. “How many citizens of his own country must he kill before you place your faith in him?”
Silence for a moment, save for the easy footsteps of the guard moving past empty tables.
Hassan did not want to openly challenge the young commander. To do so would be to invite a bullet in the early-morning hours, when he was curled tight against the cold. Loyalty did not carry far when anger was stirred, and one man finally succumbed to heavy eyelids and the pressure of commanding unruly boys who were not yet men. Maybe it would be the knife, held tight against his throat with his arms pinned tight to his body; the end could come in any number of ways. He did not want to take the chance.
“My friend, I understand your skepticism, because I share it.” Hamza studiously avoided the word fear. “However, there comes a time when you must accept your good fortune, and use it to your advantage. It is a dangerous weapon we use, but with care it can take us far. He was a soldier, he was disgraced; that much is obvious…I know what you want. You want a complete history, you want to know this man inside and out. I tell you now, that is not possible. He is an enigma, by definition. We must accept what Allah chooses to give us, and be grateful.”
A small smile, followed by another sip of tea. This was the dangerous time, when the smile could mean anything. Hassan knew why Saif was suspicious. He had questioned the American for three hours, and was told nothing. At one point, the commander held a pistol to the man’s head and denounced him, accused him of spying for the West, but still had elicited no reaction. As dawn approached, he had finally given up in frustration. Hamza could see the man’s mind working quickly now, cheek muscles twitching as al-Adel pondered his friend’s opinion.
The older man thought that his considered statements had been well received.
“Hassan.” The arms spread wide, the palms open in a gesture of reluctant capitulation. “You are correct, as always. I was wrong to doubt a man that you saw fit to bring into the organization. I have always respected your judgment.” This last sentence was delivered deliberately, Saif’s eyes burning into Hamza’s face. They were genuine, reassuring words, and his subordinate felt the trust that was given him.
“With your approval, I want to give him full control of the operation in Africa.”
“No, no.” The commander’s long arms waved the idea away quickly. “We have exhausted our ability to operate in that region. Since the bombings in Nairobi and Dar es Salaam, the Americans have considerably enhanced security at their embassies in the region. Most of their buildings are at least 100 meters away from the street, and the exterior windows are now coated in mylar. There are additional personnel and vehicular searches—in short, another attempt would result in far fewer casualties. I won’t waste the infidel on a fruitless endeavor.”
“I agree completely,” Hamza said. It was true; the attacks in 1998 had resulted in the deaths of 213 people in Nairobi. It would be difficult to achieve that success again, and any members of the organization involved in the attack would almost certainly be killed by the marines guarding the perimeter.
“There is much to be gained from this strike, my friend. The support of the Iranians will be invaluable in the future. We will